Ch. 5: Vainamoinen
Back to The Men in Brown It started with another dream. Chris had had vivid dreams before, but this stood out even from among the Dreams. For in the others he had only been watching; but this time he was there, he was among them. He did not know where he was, but the steep strange mountains plunging sharply to the sea were dark blue and dark green, and had a curious remote feel; despite the modern boats streaking the waters, it seemed like a place cut off, in a secluded bywater at the edge of the world. He was walking up a mighty half-bare fell, short green turf like moss underfoot and odd dark bushes around him. Entering a clump of woods he came to an undergrowth of thick hazel. “Cut a staff from the hazel.” someone said behind him. Chris did not turn to see, for he had to obey, and with the large knife that, in the manner of dreams, was suddenly and naturally in his hand he hacked twice on the stem of a thick hazel shoot. It had broad spreading twigs like a hand, arching to the ground amid clusters of other witch hazels. The wood was soft and white, and the second blow severed the inch-thick stem. He walked on, for he had far to go; the trail wound up through old contorted oaks in deep mossy turf, then emerged onto a rounded height of bare rock. And standing upon it, motionless save for the wind that stirred their cloaks, twelve kings stood, in full armour, and the one that stood foremost, he was most regal of them all, for his mail was plated with gold, and his armour edged with silver, and his helm patterned with red copper. “Whence did you cut the wood of that staff?” said the king, and he drew a white sword that burned like a candle. And Chris knew at once that it was Wayham King. He did not speak, but turned, and the kings followed, as he led them down the trail he had climbed. At last he stood before the hazel grove, and the stump stood white before them, and wordlessly Chris pointed to it. The twelfth king, whom Chris had never set eyes on before, now spoke. Like the fierce Barbarossa on his left he was transparent, a luminous blue-green. “Delve beneath that bush with the stave in thy hand.” “Lord, who are you?” said Christopher, pausing to stare at him. Venerable and ancient, a white beard swept over the spectre’s broad chest, and his armor was Frankish. “I was Charlemagne.” he answered. “I slept with my knights under Untersberg mountain, to pay for my forcing of Christ upon the Saxons: until the King should come.” Chris did not dare delay longer, but struck at the ground with his sharp-ended staff, cutting it with surprising ease. For the ground wasn’t solid, but a mere lid of roots and turf, and beneath was a hollow, bridged and roofed by the decaying remains of rotted logs that had fallen over it and formed the supports for the countless huge tree-roots that now held off the soil from that which lay beneath. The mouth of a stair was exposed, leading into darkness. The kings filed past him, and the ghosts lit the way, and Chris walked with them, and the kings descended for a long way. Under the earth was a cave in the mountain, and on a table of stone a huge man lay sleeping, his chest unmoving, his beard ungrowing; but his right hand, flung open beside him, was a deep crimson red. “Rise and waken, Owain Lawgoch, laid in sleep for Wales’ peril, last prince of Wealás: the King commands thee!” Slowly the huge man rose to his feet, bones and muscles creaking like ancient furniture, his veins crackling as blood flowed through them for the first time in a thousand years and more. Seven feet he stood, dwarfing all save the lords of Numenor; his hauberk was dry and dull, his great ax rusty, his clothing stiff, his hair lank and tangled. “In the name of the King, I respond.” he said. The panic that gripped Winsted for the next month was out of all proportion. All schools were shut down, and there were hysterical measures of vast and sweeping gun control proposed nationwide; even the NRA paid lip service, saying security at the schools should be increased. The fact that none of the victims died by a bullet was conveniently ignored. There were candlelight vigils at practically every church and town green for several towns around; almost every day you heard about another candlelight vigil somewhere, and there was sure to be at least one article per day in the papers about this or that aspect of the “Winsted massacre” as it was already being dubbed. Donations to the grieving families began to fill a warehouse. Signs would appear on people’s lawns with big red candles underneath saying In memory of our loved ones or some such sentiment. Christopher was so nauseated by it that the mere mention of anything remotely connected to it was enough to make him either explode or leave the room. His parents, concluding he was experiencing trauma from the scene, tried to make him see a therapist, but cancelled the appointment when they found out how much she charged. Police were slowly and exhaustively tracking down each and every student at the two schools and interviewing them. The tutor, just as the boys expected, was the peculiar Mr. Root. Despite his beard and hair, his references and ponderous dignity so impressed the boys’ parents they hired him at once. When they asked him hesitantly what they should do about the “trauma”, Root was dismissive. “They’re more likely disgusted with the fuss.” he said. “Just don’t mention it in your house and they will likely get over it on their own.” The boys waited for their first lesson with some trepidation. Promptly at eight he knocked on the door, dressed in a very odd antique suit with a brown jacket and a purple waistcoat and gold tie. He held a satchel of books and papers in one hand with ease. There was no sign of a conveyance: had he been dropped off? “Mr. Root! Do come in. My, you certainly look more professional than I expected!” Mom was chattering. “I have to leave for work in an hour, but would you mind going over what lesson plans you will be using?” “I came prepared to.” he said, hefting the satchel onto the table. It creaked a little with the weight: he must be amazingly strong for such an old man. “I presume your sons are already well grounded in basic math and reading and can write with reasonable legibility; I will accordingly test them first and then design exactly to what degree they will be taught each subject. Basic math first; there is little need for higher maths unless they show aptitude for it.” “Won’t they need math to get a job?” “If they have no aptitude for math, they will forget whatever they learn and need to take it all over again if they go to college or are applying for a math-y job. And in such a case they will gravitate will-he-nill-he into jobs they can actually do, like the manual trades or store jobs or such: why, in such a case, waste effort on algebra?” “But…that sounds so…revolutionary.” “It is schoolboy commonsense, matron. Not possessed in large degree hereabouts, it would seem. I educate pupils for what they are fitted to do; to me, education is a matter of discovering their vocation and then training them for it. By a series of basic tests I discover aptitudes, and then gear their subjects accordingly.” “Well…it certainly makes sense, I never heard it put that way by teachers before.” “That is because they are not teachers, but indoctrinators. They have been hammered into a certain frame of thinking all their lives, until they can go out and hammer others in their turn. I know little of modern schools, for I see them from outside, by hearsay and by observation of their fruits. But what I do see is not good. Look around at the average public-schooler. Ask yourself what could be being taught them to produce such sewer-brained idiots.” “I’m glad we hired you. I only hope it’s not too late.” Mr. Root looked over at the boys, meeting their eyes for a moment. “I do not think so.” he said, and then began discussing details of tests in this and that, and the boys realized with sinking hearts he was going to make them work harder than any school had done. When Mom had left, Mr. Root set out a series of papers. “Boys? Art ready?” he called. No one answered: the boys were outside playing. They moaned and wailed when he called them from the window. “Please? Just five more minutes?” “Certainly, but I’m afraid they are already up.” he retorted. “Now get in here.” Something in the tone made the boys obediently troop inside, subdued and anxious. Seeing their tutor waiting in the old armchair, they again felt that same wary awe, almost fear, of him that had marked their first meeting. He motioned, and they sat down on the torn sofa. “In order that I may teach you well, I first must know how much you learned. We will go over basic literacy first. Can you read?” “Well, duh.” Root’s bushy white brows bunched, perplexed. “I am afraid I do not know that word. I have not dwelt here even ten years, and your slang remains a mystery even after I comprehend your tongue.” “It means, um, like when…eerrg…Chris, help me out!” “It’s um, something obvious, whatzitcalled, self-evident.” “Ah.” nodded Root. “Emphatic and incoherent, and yet with an assumed instinctive meaning. Intriguing. I see we are going to spend much time on vocabulary. You should be able to give a meaning for the words you use, as you may be using them in peculiar contexts where they mean something far divorced from their definition. Most children are like that. I gather, then, that you can read. Read this paragraph aloud.” The boys began to read out, both together, the pages he handed them, mounting dismay in their faces as they did so. “''The luscious meat of the divine fruit hung meltingly within their mouths, scrumptious and orgiastic, until they swallowed and felt it flow caressingly into their entrails. Their cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and amber light awoke within their gold-blushing eyes as they opened on immortality.” “Better than I expected.” said Root critically. “You read the words as if they roused some poetic sense within you, and were not mere meaningless verbosity.” “It’s pretty gooey.” said Stephen. “A bit like Lord of the Rings.” said Chris. “Ah, you have read that! All the way through? Was any of it over your head?” “Yeah.” said Stephen. “Not me.” said Chris. “Though it was—well—sort of way up there, you know, but I could read it. The Gates of Gondor part was awesome.” Root took out another page. “Read that aloud, then, and prove your words.” Chris read out, ''“Grond crawled on. The drums rolled wildly. Over the hills of slain a hideous shape appeared: a horseman, tall, hooded, cloaked in black. Slowly, trampling the fallen, he rode forth, heeding no longer any dart. He halted and held up a long pale sword. And as he did so a great fear fell on all, defender and foe alike; and the hands of men drooped to their sides, and no bow sang. For a moment all was still. '' ''“The drums rolled and rattled. With a vast rush Grond was hurled forward by huge hands. It reached the Gate. It swung. A deep boom rumbled through the City like thunder running in the clouds. But the doors of iron and posts of steel withstood the stroke. '' ''“Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone. '' ''“Thrice he cried. Thrice the great ram boomed. And suddenly upon the last stroke the Gate of Gondor broke. As if stricken by some blasting spell it burst asunder: there was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground. '' ''“In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, grown to a vast menace of despair. In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face. '' ''“All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, sat Gandalf upon Shadowfax: Shadowfax who alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror, unmoving, steadfast as a graven image in Rath Dínen.” When he had finished, Chris sat there, his eyes shining. For a moment he’d been there, had seen the shadowed field, the lurid lights, the dreadful purple-white-blue fire of the Witch-King. Root gave a slight smile. “Let us check your math, then.” he said. He had them recite the multiplication tables (a fearsome mangle) and then name the highest number they knew about. They knew hundred-thousands and millions, but got mixed up on how many zeros were in a billion. Higher than that, Root said, was only needful if they were intending to go into science or finance. “And considering your impressive display to date, I would avoid applying for either of those careers.” Then he had them work out three pages of math problems. Plus and minus and multiplying the boys proved reasonably proficient at. Division took longer. And anything more complicated than that had them stumped. “Middle math, then, is what we will work on, until you reach your limits.” he said. “Now show me how well you write.” He gave them each a sheet of lined paper and a pencil. Three sharpenings later, they handed in smeared crumpled sheets covered with vaguely identifiable scrawls in large loopy letters that only occasionally managed to refrain from overlapping other lines. Root held them up and gazed solemnly at the mess. “Too much time on the computer, I see.” was his only comment. He turned the pages over and put them on the table, writing with a swift fluid motion. Two minutes later he handed them to the boys. The boys stared in mounting horror. Small, neat, graceful letters in the flowing cursive script formed lines as straight as a ruler. “I don’t quite expect you to attain to '' that '' level.” Root said dryly at the expression on their faces. “I have, after all, been writing longer than you. But I do expect you to be able to write in letters only a quarter-inch high, neatly enough for strangers to read with ease, and well enough to form straight lines on blank paper.” He questioned them on science, looking approving when they said they didn’t believe in evolution. “The word '' believe in'' is actually quite accurate.” he said. “Evolution, despite its’ prevalence, is still only a scientific theory among real scientists; the evidence even over two centuries being negligible at best. It is something believed in and dogmatically stated but carefully not described as such: a religion, in short, which allows no other gods.” He questioned them on biology, physics and botany, in all of which their knowledge was minimal. “Botany may sound boring,” Root admonished, “but how would it sound, if expressed like this? “I have been within the forest, Brooms to bind and shoots to gather, There to pluck some birchen tassels; Bound a bundle for my father, Bound a second for my mother, Bound a third one for my brother, For my sister silken tassels.” '' “Whoo.” said Chris. “Did you make that up?” “No,” Root answered, and there was an eternity of sorrow in his voice. “That is one of the old songs, from the days when the Flood had laid bare the world, and the mighty singers sang up forests, sang out birds, the world regrowing. But that’s another subject. We were on botany, or the study of plants. Plants are best studied in the ground. When we reach that lesson, I will teach you about the plants growing in this area.” He let them out to play while he fixed lunch, a strange but delicious stew made of leftover chicken, canned carrots and old celery and an onion, flavored with a spoonful of salad dressing and boiled. “Leftover stew, I call it.” he explained when they wanted seconds. “In ten minutes we will resume studies. School ends at 2:30 today. Tomorrow I should have the curriculum worked out.” “What are we doing next?” said Chris in a resigned tone. “English, literature and basic thinking.” “Whaaa…?” “If you do not know how to think, you will be singularly unequipped to handle simple and obvious problems, like Who should I vote for? or How can I explain this?” “Oh.” Root went over basic grammar, using as basis extensive quotes, taken at random, from Tolkien illustrating predicate and subject, noun and verb. “Though to know these words is not needful; what is needful is to know what they signify, and to have this signification buried in your head, where it can be drawn upon by instinct and at will. Another way, of course, is simple imitation: read enough old books and your sentences will begin to arrange themselves in like fashion inside your head.” “Is that what you’re planning on having us do for literature?” “No, my plan for literature is to assign you boring books for the sheer fun of it.” said Root with a straight face. The boys looked at each other, unsure whether to laugh or not. “Actually, the books are often not boring in themselves, but only because they do not accord with one’s interior taste or use unfamiliar phrasing. Some of Dickens is quite dull, and most of it not only interesting but droll. And then there is poetry.” “Eeew, I hate poetry.” complained Stephen. “It’s all mushy.” “Alas, how true.” replied Root. “Many children grow up with a permanent dislike of poetry due to a forced diet of sonnets and Shelley, with Shakespeare for dessert. Too much cake leaves one feeling quite ill. It is usually better to begin with meat.” “What, you mean people have written poems about '' meat??” exclaimed Chris. “I’m sure they have.” said Root. The room was dim, for clouds had come up during lunch, and now a cold gusty rain suddenly pattered on the streets and echoed off the shed roof. “Poems can be about any topic. But calling them '' poems '' is in itself misleading. Poetry is merely written music, with phonetic sounds and verbal images instead of notes. It would be more accurate to call them songs. They flow to an internal music, the syllables chosen and squeezed to fit into a certain kind of flow in structure and pronounciation, so that even when spoken in ordinary tones they ring like music. Tom Bombadil, for instance, speaks in verse, though it is arranged like speech: None have ever caught him yet, for Tom he is the master; his songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster….''You see?” “Um, kind of.” “But this is only explanation, and words are dry. Let me sing you some of the ''poems of my homeland.” “You’re—not born here?” “I am foreign.” answered Root. “My homeland is Kalevala, or Finnland as men call it now.” “You mean like Vikings?” “The Norsemen were west of us. They faced the outer sea, we the inner. The drowned vale, the sunken lands slow emerging: the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, the fertile meadlands of Wainola, fragrant dens of Sariola.” He began to chant in a throbbing, powerful singsong voice, deep and steady as waves. It rose and climbed in an odd cadence, jarring at first, then settling into you. The boys listened as if gripped. He was not using English. He sang in a strange and haunting language, flowing and sonorous at once: it reminded the boys of something… Vaka vanha Väinämöinen itse tuon sanoiksi virkki: "Näistäpä toki tulisi kalanluinen kanteloinen, kun oisi osoajata, soiton luisen laatijata." Kun ei toista tullutkana, ei ollut osoajata, soiton luisen laatijata, vaka vanha Väinämöinen itse loihe laatijaksi, tekijäksi teentelihe. Laati soiton hauinluisen, suoritti ilon ikuisen. Kust' on koppa kanteletta? Hauin suuren leukaluusta. Kust' on naulat kanteletta? Ne on hauin hampahista. Kusta kielet kanteletta? Hivuksista Hiien ruunan. Jo oli soitto suorittuna, valmihina kanteloinen, soitto suuri hauinluinen, kantelo kalaneväinen. Tuli tuohon nuoret miehet, tuli nainehet urohot, tuli pojat puol'-ikäiset sekä pienet piikalapset, tytöt nuoret, vaimot vanhat, naiset keskikertaisetki, kanteletta katsomahan, soittoa tähyämähän. Vaka vanha Väinämöinen käski nuoren, käski vanhan, käski keskikertaisenki soittamahan sormillansa tuota ruotaista romua, kalanluista kanteletta. Soitti nuoret, soitti vanhat, soitti keskikertaisetki. Nuoret soitti, sormet notkui, vanhat väänti, pää vapisi: ei ilo ilolle nousnut, soitto soitolle ylennyt.” He paused with a sigh. The boys stirred. “Was that Elvish?” asked Christopher. “No, though of all men’s speeches the closest related to ancient Quenya. That is Finnish, the language of my birth.” “It sounds so…beautiful.” “It is the speech of song.” said Root. “Men used it to sing the words of power, and when sung in it, common words took awful meanings and the matter of Creation moved in answer to their singing. But the world is deaf, and the music faded from the earth, and only those born of that Music still can sing and compel answer. But I apologise: I am an old man, and I grow lost in my long thought. The song I sang just now runs somewhat as follows in your speech: '' '' “Väinämöinen, old and steadfast, '' ''Answered in the words which follow:'' '' "Yet a harp might be constructed'' '' Even of the bones of fishes,'' '' If there were a skilful workman,'' '' Who could from the bones construct it."'' '' As no craftsman there was present,'' '' And there was no skilful workman'' '' Who could make a harp of fishbones,'' '' Steadfast ancient Väinämöinen'' '' Then began the harp to fashion,'' '' And himself the work accomplished,'' '' And he made a harp of pikebones,'' '' Fit to give unending pleasure.'' '' Out of what did he construct it?'' '' Chiefly from the great pike's jawbones,'' '' Whence obtained he pegs to suit it?'' '' Of the teeth of pike he made them;'' '' Out of what were harpstrings fashioned?'' '' From the hairs of Hiisi's gelding.'' '' Now the instrument was ready,'' '' And the kantele completed,'' '' Fashioned from the pike's great jawbones,'' '' And from fins of fish constructed.'' '' Thereupon the youths came forward,'' '' Forward came the married heroes,'' '' And the half-grown boys came forward,'' '' And the little girls came likewise,'' '' Maidens young, and aged women,'' '' And the women middle-agèd,'' '' All advanced the harp to gaze on,'' '' And the instrument examine.'' '' Väinämöinen, old and steadfast,'' '' Bade the young folks and the old ones,'' '' And the people middle-agèd,'' '' With their fingers play upon it,'' '' On the instrument of fishbone,'' '' On the kantele of fishbone.'' '' Played the young and played the aged,'' '' Likewise played the middle-agèd,'' '' Played the young, and moved their fingers,'' '' Tried the old, whose heads were shaking,'' '' But they drew no music from it,'' '' Nor composed a tune when playing.” '' '' '' “Epic.” said Chris. “It forms more of a cycle than an epic; an epic has a continuous theme and plot, while a saga is a single tale; a cycle is a group of songs only loosely related but involving much the same characters. That was from the ''Kalevala, the new collection of the old songs that fellow Lonnrot made: though many are missing, and some have undergone most peculiar evolutions since I knew them, aye!” “No, no, I meant like That was epic! or That was awesome!” “You mean, as pertaining to or like something from an epic.” said Root, sounding interested. “An epic is a long heroic poem about a high or overarching event, such as a battle, a journey, a war or a long tale.” “Interesting.” “Who was that…Van-a-monnen?” piped Stephen. “''Väinämöinen,” Root’s voice boomed suddenly in the dim room. The rain outside rose to a pounding cascade. “The ancient hero, old and steadfast, ever teaching, ever singing. Born of air and born of water, so men claimed: his mother was the Air-daughter, and his father was the Sea. He was a Bard, as they called them later: the Singers they were named in those days, or the Minstrels, or even the Wizards for the effects their songs could produce. He was the first of them. He wandered the land and sang to it: he sang up trees in barren places, sang down woods to plant the plainlands, sang up winds and sang up rain whenever there was need of either.” “A Wizard?” said Christopher, in mingled awe and disapproval. “But that’s, like, magic.” “Not then.” answered Root. “Not before Christ. After him…all other laws ceased, for where He is it is always Light. But in the Twilight many things were still possible, and even permitted, that now are not. There was no way of being Saved before Christ, now was there? He came to bring the true religion. But in the dimness many things were allowed, that the Light made not only forbidden but impossible. Nowadays, for any who have no inner Music to try to sing the songs of power, is to call on evil beings to supply the lacking music, to move and wield sluggish matter: and that is black magic.” “Inner music?” “Beings who are not human. Like Gandalf. Or the Elves. Or Väinämöinen.” “But why music?” “The world in the beginning was sang into being, when the morning stars praised Him together and the sons of God shouted in a mighty chorous. That Music runs through the World, and the World answered to song, and those beings birthed by God out of the Music carry It within their hearts. And when they sing, they can force even deaf matter to hear—and to obey.” “That’s really deep.” breathed Chris. “My head’s spinning.” complained Stephen. “That, by the way,” said Root placidly, “is what I meant by thinking.” “You cheated!” accused Chris. “It was supposed to be drudgery!” “It’s only drudgery when you’re not interested in it.” retorted Root. He looked at the clock. “It seems we still have half an hour. Perhaps I had better spend it in telling stories.” “Tell one about Vainny-moynen.” said Chris. '' “Vay-nay-moihr-nen.” corrected Root, in that sudden deeper voice that seemed somehow to be the only right way to speak that strange and terrible name. He had a most peculiar rolling way of pronouncing it, the central syllable broad and almost like a mix of oy and ur. “The delicacies of the sounding are yet beyond you. Very well. “In the northern regions of Wainola, in the cool and chilly Lapland, there was a singer named Youikahainen, young and proud and utterly foolish. He thought him strong, and resolved at last to face and battle Väinämöinen himself.” Root’s old eyes grew grim and distant, as if no longer seeing the boys before him, and his voice grew dreamy, until it settled into the strange chant he had sung before.'' '' “I will go and face the minstrel, Challenge him as bard to battle, Sing to him my sweet-toned measures, Chant to him my oldest legends, Chant to him my garnered wisdom, That this best of boasted singers, That this famous bard of Suomi, Shall be worsted in the contest: By my songs shall I transform him, That his feet shall be as flint-stone, And as oak his nether raiment; And this famous, best of singers, Thus bewitched, shall carry ever, In his heart a stony burden.” '' '' '' He shook himself, as if recalling his mind from old memory, and began to speak more normally. “So he drove furiously down from Lapland. It was spring and the old snow lay yet deep, so it was by sledge he drove down. Full upon the bend he charged, smashed into a sledge it rounding: both the sledges were upset, both the sleds were sorely wrecked. White was the wood of the sledge he broke, and the shafts were with gold engraved, and the driver was a strong old man. Pulling himself from the wreck he demanded the youth’s name and reason for such hasty driving. But the youth answered with arrogance, saying wisdom only wins the road, for he now did suspect who it was unto him talking. “Are you in fact that Väinämöinen, of whose fame is so renowned?” “The old man answered gently that he was but a simple farmer, and knew little songs worth singing. “Some of these I may remember, but since thou perforce demand it, I accept thy boastful challenge. Tell me now, my golden youngster, what thou knowest more than others: open now thy store of wisdom." “But all that youthful Youkahainen, who learned only words that gave him power, never questioned after wisdom, never quested after meaning, all that he could sing about were things that were self-evident: ''“Know I many bits of learning '' ''This I know in perfect clearness: '' ''Every roof must have a chimney, '' ''Every fire-place have a hearth-stone; '' ''Lives of seal are free and merry, '' ''Merry is the life of walrus. '' ''Should this wisdom seem too little, '' ''I can tell thee other matters, '' ''Sing thee other wizard sayings: '' ''All the Northmen plow with reindeer, '' ''Mother-horses plow the Southland, '' ''Inner Lapland plows with oxen; '' ''Slender grow the trees on mountains.” '' '' Then the ancient Väinämöinen: '' ''"Women's tales and children's wisdom '' ''Do not please a bearded hero, '' ''Hero, old enough for wedlock; '' ''Tell the story of creation, '' ''Tell me of the world's beginning, '' ''Tell me of the creatures in it, '' ''And philosophize a little." Root paused in his chanting and said, “But shallow-headed Youkahainen, he could only sing of smallness, things obvious and accidental, he knew nothing of essentials.” Suddenly his voice swelled out again, old and rich and powerful, a storyteller utterly lost in his own story: ''“Pretty birdling is the titmouse; '' ''And the viper, green, a serpent; '' ''Iron rusts, and rusting weakens; '' ''Bitter is the taste of lemon; '' ''Boiling water is malicious; '' ''Fire is ever full of danger; '' ''Waters gush from every mountain; '' ''Fire descended first from heaven; '' ''Iron from the rust was fashioned; '' ''Copper from the rocks created; '' ''Marshes are of lands the oldest; '' ''First of all the trees, the willow.” '' '' '' ''Now the ancient Vainamoinen '' ''Thus addresses Youkahainen: '' ''"Canst thou give me now some wisdom, '' ''Is this nonsense all thou knowest?" '' ''Youkahainen thus made answer: '' ''"I can tell thee still a trifle, '' ''Tell thee of the times primeval, '' ''When I plowed the salt-sea's bosom, '' ''When I raked the sea-girt islands, '' ''When I dug the salmon-grottoes, '' ''Hollowed out the deepest caverns, '' ''When I all the lakes created, '' ''When I heaped the mountains round them, '' ''When I piled the rocks about them. '' ''I was present as a hero, '' ''Sixth of wise and ancient heroes, '' ''Seventh of all primeval heroes.” '' “Wait, wait, wait, whaaat? Was Youkahainen immortal or something?” exclaimed Stephen. “To sing in this fashion deceived matter into answering to the singer as if to one in whose veins ran the Music.” replied Root. “Not, of course, in anything as great a degree as it did to the real Singers, but enough to deceive the ignorant. Väinämöinen took him literally on purpose, calling him the prince of liars: for he himself had indeed been present as one of those primeval heros. Sneering Youkahainen challenged him to broadswords, since he had thus failed at wisdom. Väinämöinen indignantly refused, causing Youkahanin to declare, '' '' ''“Into wild-boar of the forest, '' ''Swine at heart and swine in visage, '' ''Singing I will thus transform him; '' ''I will hurl such hero-cowards, '' ''This one hither, that one thither, '' ''Stamp him in the mire and bedding, '' ''In the rubbish of the stable." '' '' '' ''Angry then grew Vainamoinen, '' ''Wrathful waxed, and fiercely frowning, '' ''Self-composed he broke his silence, '' ''And began his wondrous chanting. '' '' '' ''Grandly sang wise Vainamoinen, '' ''Till the copper-bearing mountains, '' ''And the flinty rocks and ledges '' ''Heard his magic tones and trembled; '' ''Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, '' ''All the ocean heaved and tumbled; '' ''And the distant hills re-echoed. '' ''Lo! the boastful Youkahainen '' ''Is transfixed in silent wonder, '' ''And his sledge with golden trimmings '' ''Floats like brushwood on the billows; '' ''Sings his braces into reed-grass, '' ''Sings his reins to twigs of willow, '' ''And to shrubs his golden cross-bench. '' ''Still the minstrel sings enchantment, '' ''Sings his sword to gleam of lightning, '' ''Sings his quick and feathered arrows '' ''Into hawks and screaming eagles; '' ''And alas! for Youkahainen, '' ''Sings him into deeps of quick-sand; '' ''Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, '' ''In his torture, sinks the wizard, '' ''To his belt in mud and water, '' ''Bitter cold and icy water. '' '' '' ''Thereupon sad Youkahainen, '' ''In the deeps of desperation, '' ''And in earnest supplication, '' ''Thus addresses Vainamoinen: '' ''"O thou ancient Vainamoinen, '' ''Thou the only true, magician, '' ''Cease I pray thee thine enchantment,. '' ''Only turn away thy magic, '' ''Let me leave this slough of horror, '' ''I will pay a golden ransom." '' Root stopped chanting. “First he offered magic crossbows, but these the hero grim refuses. ‘Do not wish thy magic crossbows: have a few of such already.’ Then he sang him deeper, deeper, till the fool offered him magic vessels. Once again the hero refuses, for he has him boats aplenty. Sings he then the other deeper, into quicksand to his girdle. Precious horses now he offers, but the hero is not happy, is not content with pithy ransom. Once more sings he him yet deeper, to his shoulders into mire. Gold and silver now he offers, but the hero still refuses. “I have gold in great abundance, on each nail hang bags of silver.” Sank he then the braggart deeper, to his chin in mud and water. Offered he then goodly crop-land, fields full of golden corn-land. But the hero sang him deeper, ‘One’s own fields are always richer, and one’s own grain is the sweeter.’ Water bubbling in his teeth, the gasping braggart offers once more: ''“I will give thee sister Aino, '' ''Fairest daughter of my mother, '' ''Bride of thine to be forever, '' ''Bride of thine to do thy pleasure…” '' Root abruptly ceased chanting, and in the silence the rain could be heard pattering steadily, grey and misty, in the cold green yard. “Then what happened?” said Stephen. Root got up and began packing his papers into the satchel. “That is another tale,” he replied. “A tale of the tragedy of the stupidity of Men, and how we who try to raise them often only rouse their folly, and cause them to dash their own heads out rather than learn ways of wisdom. I run late. Till tomorrow, children.” He hefted the satchel without much effort and headed out the door. “Did he drive here? He doesn’t even have an umbrella!” exclaimed Stephen. They could hear him humming the slow strange chant of the Finnish songs as he headed down the porch. Leaning on the window Chris saw their tutor step out into the rain and walk off down the street. Yet however hard he looked he could not see the mark of a single drop upon the clothing of Mr. Root. Back to The Men in Brown